Chapter 21 - The Woman of the House

After Brian and I got home from the farmer’s market, we didn’t speak for the rest of the day. He retreated to his office to work, while I hid in the boathouse. I tried to apologize again, but he didn’t want to hear it. He wasn’t mad. Worse, he was embarrassed. I had caused a scene in our new town, and even though he hides it better than I do, I know he cares what other people think about him. About us.

Our need for approval is one of the few things Brian and I have in common, even if our reasons for craving it aren’t the same. I was never accepted by anyone, including my own mother, while Brian has been accepted, even loved, by everyone. I crave what I never had, and Brian is afraid of losing what he’s always known. My outburst at the farmer’s market put everything at risk.

For Brian, moving to Lake Moss was meant to be the start of our future: the official beginning of our life together and the final step before having kids. For me, it was about leaving Mother in the past and finally becoming the woman Brian thought he married. It doesn’t matter that our reasons for moving here were different. We had come here to start fresh. We were together, and we are building a life I’d only ever dreamed of. But the scene I caused puts our fresh start in jeopardy.

The next day, Brian wakes up before I’ve had a chance to sleep. He mutters something about having a busy day, and a few moments later I hear the front door close behind him.

I lie in bed alone, staring at the ceiling. Hours go by, or maybe it’s minutes. I’m not sure. There’s a knock at the door. I rub my eyes and pat my cheeks to wake myself up before I go downstairs and open it. Vick is waiting for me on the porch.

“Hi, Vick.”

He’s holding his baseball cap in his hands. His eyes are cast downward. “I was wondering if I could take off a bit early today? The wife…”

“Oh, she’s not doing so well?”

He nods.

“Take all the time you need,” I say, not really caring if he stays or goes. The progress of the landscaping is the farthest thing from my mind right now.

Vick hangs his head in appreciation but lingers on the porch. I want to close the door so I can escape into the boathouse, but Vick won’t move.

“She’s worried about you,” Vick says after a moment.

“Who?” I ask.

“Helen,” Vick says. The name doesn’t register and he can see it on my face. “My wife.”

“I don’t know your wife.”

“She knows you’re not sleeping well. She says sleep is important.”

He walks away before I can ask him how his wife knows I’m not sleeping.

“Vick!” I yell after him. “Wait!”

He climbs into his truck and waves goodbye to me, pretending not to hear my pleas. The truck lurches backward several yards before he puts it in drive and heads down our driveway. Within seconds, he disappears down the road, taking the answers to my questions with him.

I walk around the side of the house and collapse in the middle of the boathouse. The mix-up at the farmer’s market, the upcoming doctor’s appointment, and the questions about Angela swirling around in my head are all too much to take. The rest of the day slips by like sand between my fingers as I watch the waves throw themselves against the shore from the boathouse window. It’s only when the sun dips back behind the lake that I realize how hungry I am. I make my way up the hill. The setting sun floods the house in a warm orange glow that makes the dark blue shingles and wraparound porch look inviting. But I know the truth. It feels like this place feeds off the fear festering inside of me. It’s the same fear that’s been growing inside of me my whole life. Fear of Mother, fear of being found out, fear of losing Brian, and fear of being alone. I thought I could bury this fear when Mother died, but moving here has brought it to the surface.

It’s dark when I go inside. As soon as I close the door behind me, I’m swallowed by silence. The kitchen is pitch-black. Usually, I turn on lights to avoid feeling my way through the house, but when I left this morning I didn’t think I’d be gone all day. I stand with my back against the door, waiting. The hum of the lake is gone. The animals are quiet in their nests. Even the trees are still. Then a coolness passes through me. Someone is here, I can feel it.

“Hello?” I say into the dark, my voice cracking on its way out. In an instant, the kitchen seems to get darker. My eyes dart from the counter to the fridge to the cabinets, expecting something to jump out, but nothing is there. “Who’s there?” I hold my breath, waiting for the silence to respond.

My phone buzzes in my pocket and I jump. I feel for the light switch and flip it. Light floods the kitchen. Everything is how I left it. I check my phone. There’s a text message from Brian. He’s working late and is staying in the city tonight. I sink onto one of the stools at the counter. He’s punishing me for causing a scene at the farm, I know it. When I close my eyes, I see the shocked faces of the crowd staring back at me. Open mouths. Sideways glances. Confused faces. I know Brian saw them too. Brian is the only person who’s ever accepted me. The version of me he knows, at least. And I won’t lose that. I can’t.

My phone vibrates in my hand. It’s Brian again, reminding me his parents are coming over for dinner tomorrow night. I’d forgotten, but I respond right away. Sounds good. I love you.

Three dots appear at the bottom of the screen. I hold my breath while I wait for him to respond, but the dots disappear just as quickly. I’m not sure how long I sit in the kitchen staring at my phone, hoping he’ll say I love you back, but he never does.

What makes you think he ever loved you?

—

I wake up in our bed. I’m not sure how I got here. The last thing I remember was pacing around the kitchen island last night, my finger hovering above Brian’s name on my phone while I decided whether I should call him. Maybe he fell asleep before he got the chance to respond to my text. Or worse, he saw it and ignored me on purpose. My chest felt tight. The rest of my body felt sore from the tension. I sat down on the couch to think about what to do next. After that, I don’t remember anything.

Sitting up in bed, I blink my eyes open. There’s something cool and wet next to me. My hand stings. Then I see it.

Blood.

My hand is covered in blood.

Our white sheets are soaked in crimson. I put my hand to my mouth to scream, but nothing comes out. I scurry backward on the bed, trying to escape my own appendage. When I look closer, I see a deep cut running along the side of my right hand. I hold it to the light. It’s glistens. Not with blood, with glass. Small shards are spread out next to me on the bed.

I pick up one jagged piece after another, not caring if I cut my hand again, and put them together like a dangerous puzzle. It’s only when I pick up the last piece, a handle, that I realize what it is. The glass rattle Brian gave me when we first moved in is now a broken, bloody mess on our bed.

There’s a ringing noise going off in my ears. It feels like it’s coming from inside my head. Maybe I’m still asleep. Maybe this is all a bad dream. I close my eyes, willing myself to wake up, but when I open them, the noise is still blaring in my ears and the glass is still spread out in front of me. Frustration takes hold and I scream, my cries competing with the incessant noise, until my breath is gone. Panting, I look around the room to find the source of the sound. The alarm clock. I turn it off so I can sit in silence, but my thoughts are just as loud.

I don’t know how the rattle got here. I don’t know how I got here. I picture myself, late at night, climbing up the stairs, leaning on the railing until I plop down in bed, too tired to be afraid. Only when I’m completely unconscious and defenseless does the presence inside my home reveal itself. I imagine the shadows gathering at the corners until a woman appears, the same woman I saw in my reflection. She moves through the house, her bony feet creaking the floorboards below, until she reaches the guest room. The unbroken rattle is dwarfed by her cold hand. She carries it at her side into our bedroom, where she breaks the glass. She looms over my sleeping body, holding the largest shard of glass right next to my throat. Did I sense her? Did my hand reach for my neck and catch the edge of the glass instead?

I get up from the bloodied bed and retrace my steps. The last time I remember seeing the rattle, it was in the guest bedroom on top of the dresser. Nothing is out of place in the hallway. The floorboards moan under my feet as I make my way there, but besides that the house is quiet. I turn left down the hall. Shallow breaths escape from my lungs. The door to the guest bedroom is closed. My blood prickles. This door is never closed.

My blood-soaked hand reaches for the doorknob and turns it. I blink several times so my eyes can adjust to the bright light inside. The blinds are open and the sun is shining through. It’s piercing. I shield my eyes and walk toward the dresser. I run my fingers along the top. A ring of dust outlines where the rattle once was. Then I notice the top dresser drawer is partially open.

Open it.

I grit my teeth. Sweat collects at my temples. I open the dresser drawer and see Mother’s framed picture upside down, just as I left it. I let out a sigh of relief, but it’s premature. When I turn the frame over, I jump back from the dresser in shock. The portrait of Mother, once black-and-white, is now a faded yellow. Her eyes are the same unfeeling dark holes they always were, but her skin and teeth are decrepit and discolored. The corners of the photograph are starting to curl inside the frame, as if the image is recoiling from itself. It reminds me of a snake, winding up before it strikes.

The alarm in our bedroom goes off again. I slam the drawer shut. The mirror above the dresser shakes in response. With the picture of Mother still in my hand, I run down the hall and back into the bedroom. The alarm blares as I shove the picture frame into the box of Mother’s other belongings hidden inside my closet. The stench of her fills my nose and makes me cough. Tears well up in my eyes. I push the box back in its place before I grab the alarm clock with both of my hands.

“Shut up!” I cry. I shake it back and forth like I’m holding the sides of someone’s face.

Digital wind chimes cry back in response. “Shut up, shut up, shut up.” It doesn’t stop. I pick it up over my head and throw it onto the floor. Finally, it’s silent. I pick it up and throw it back down on the floor again. I throw it on the floor again and again until tiny pieces of plastic are scattered everywhere.

I lean back on the side of the bed, exhausted. I put my head in my hands. Dried, salty tears are caked on the side of my face even though I don’t remember crying. I reach for my phone. It’s only then that I see the time: three p.m. I slept all night and through most of the day? Impossible.

I go back to my texts to see if Brian responded to me, but he didn’t. The last message from him is a reminder that his parents are coming over for dinner tonight.

“Fuck.” The word comes out of my mouth slow and deliberate. Straight from my gut. It’s as if this is the only time I’ve ever really meant it. The thought of smiling through small talk full of shallow how are yous makes my stomach double over on itself. The unanswered I love you I sent to Brian glares back at me.

He’s still angry and embarrassed about what happened in the corn maze, but this dinner is a chance for me to show him that I don’t need to see a doctor. I’m all right. We’re all right. After tonight, everything will go back to normal. It has to.

Somehow, I stand up. I strip the bed and carry the bloody sheets with the shards of glass still nestled inside down to the boathouse and shove them into the corner. Back in the house, I make the bed with a pair of spare sheets. Brian won’t even notice. After I clean up the cut on my hand, I turn on the shower and step inside.